


when they smile all the world is bright and beautiful

by Grand_Phoenix



Series: Warcraft Drabbles, Short Stories, and Other Such Things [45]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Body Paint, Consensual, Demon Hunter Alleria, Double Entendre, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, Kor'vas tries to be a smug little shit but Illidan is maxed out on 100 Dodge, Mutual Pining, Praise Kink, Subtext, Trust, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, World of Warcraft: The Burning Crusade, lol yeah right, or about as Warm and Fuzzy as you can get with demon hunters, soooo many double entendres, we stan a happy smiling Illidan please pass it on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:54:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29207703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grand_Phoenix/pseuds/Grand_Phoenix
Summary: We can make it work. We can make it worth it and nothing and no one would be able to stop us. As long as you're by my side. [Illidan and Alleria, in the Den of Mortal Delights within the Black Temple][TBC era, WC2 divergent, pre-Dark Portal Opens event]
Relationships: Alleria Windrunner/Illidan Stormrage
Series: Warcraft Drabbles, Short Stories, and Other Such Things [45]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/971712
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	when they smile all the world is bright and beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> So I have no idea where this came from but I was struck with the thought of Illidari being really big into body paint because they're proud, self-sacrificial exhibitionists and if there's any way they're going to put the fear of Lord Illidan into demons it's going to be done _creatively_ , dammit!
> 
> OTOH I wanted something light and fluffy, since what few of my Demon Hunter!Alleria AUs that I have are of the nitty-gritty kind and leaning more heavily on the bitter than the sweet side where endings are concerned. Plus I was in the mood for writing a hetero fic, whose ships I can barely count on one hand, so imagine my shock that I didn't waffle around nearly as much with the tooth-rotting fluff and very thinly low-key subtext eroticism as I did with, say, writing _one night on the wild hunt_ last year (that took at least over two weeks to power through).
> 
> I guess I'm getting better at this romance thing, after all.

Her eyes never stray from him, even as he continually dips down her body as to be almost out of sight. Head bent low, focus on the swathe of toned stomach that’s rising and falling beneath his hand. The tip of the brush rests in the dipper beside them, fingers closed around the handle, thoughts churning with gradual reflection.

“Well. This is new,” Alleria drawls, the hint of amusement prevalent in her tone. “Can’t say I ever expected the Lord of Outland to appear so undecided.”

“I am _not_ ,” Illidan mumbles, and settles on chewing the inside of his cheek. Her muscles are tough, hard, crisscrossed with scars old and new; most of them are white and faded, jagged outlines indicative of blades and arrowheads from battles long-ago. There is barely any tension in her. He spreads his fingers out even further across her abdomen until he feels the ligaments begin to strain, nails hooking ghost-like against her skin.

Her breath hitches, quick and flighty. He clears his throat, deigns to tap his finger against the handle. “I have—”

“Too many ideas?”

“Hmmm.” _Tap tap tap_ , goes his finger. _Tap tap tap_. “Perhaps.”

“It doesn’t really matter, does it? Half the Illidari may as well be going commando on the field already.” Tiny ripples of laughter bounce in the cusp of his palm. “The Burning Legion doesn’t care for nudity.”

“No. It doesn’t.”

“Then do whatever you see fit. I won’t mind either way.”

“Hmmm.” He tips his head to the left, then he tips his head to the right. Each motion he makes causes the long ropes of hair not bound in the topknot to sway and drag along her flesh, causes her composure to twitch and spasm in little spurts. He needn’t have to look up to see the grin on her lips, the mischief twinkling in fel-tainted eyes often hidden behind the scrap of wrathguard armor serving as her visor. ( _It’s done,_ she had told him, one foot on the demon’s chest next to the blade protruding from him, hands caked up to the elbows in blood as she held up his pulsating heart for Illidan to see. _Let me know what comes next when I wake up,_ she added, and took her first bite.)

Once, long ago, he would imagine having those kind of eyes and that kind of smile on Tyrande, out of character as those fantasies would be. But young blood had run hotly in his veins then, and darkness has a funny habit of bringing one’s true colors to light when all the world is theirs to bear witness to, so he was wont to be privy to daydreams he would have otherwise found overly saccharine. If his brother had any inkling of those blue hour fantasies, he did not show as such. For all he knew, and knows now, his secrets were his alone to entertain.

Illidan hums again, and the sound reverberates from the base of his throat to the core of her sternum. Alleria does not stiffen. She holds still, waiting patiently, expectantly.

(It is little wonder, he thinks, that he had not considered binding her wrists above her head until now.)

He closes his fingers round the paintbrush and picks his head up enough to see where he’s moving it; fel lotus is hard to come by, and even more difficult to accumulate enough to grind down into pigments. Every drop of paint wasted is a few hours more accumulated to comb the fields for them.

A single eye watches him stir the paint and knock the tip on the side of the dipper. The war paint had been scrubbed off long since, the artist at the time replacing it with the same pattern in runic form. In the dim glow of gaslight on the walls, it brightens like embers in a dying fire.

Illidan swallows, bites down on his cheek, and brings the brush to bear. He stirs it in the pot, knocks it a couple more times, and brings it up to bear. Tilts it so the paint doesn’t drip all over Alleria or the slab they’re lying on.

His gaze roams over her body. Taut, whip-lean, sun-kissed: this is the temple of a huntress who has spent centuries of her life wending over forest and valley, traipsing the rivers and the streams that fall from the high places in the greenery and delving between the falls hidden within the deep, dark places only the moons and stars knew. Weather-worn, hardened, but neither bent nor broken.

He reminds himself to place his hand over one jutting hipbone and hold her there, faintly registers the way her right leg curls up into his touch.

Most tattoos carved into the flesh are angular; very few ride the curve of a shoulder, a breast, the dip in an arm. A demon hunter’s agility lies solely in the lower half of their bodies. Having the ritual be performed all over the body instead of localizing it to the upper portion, where their martial skill rests, would be one less soldier on the field to secure the premises. But, he supposes, being a little fussy with identity is worth the burning agony that eventually overcomes them in short order; a normal elf would’ve called bastardizing the old customs blasphemous if not outright counterproductive and hypocritical.

They are not quite wrong. He is certain the more sound Illidari would attest to that. Then again, some rituals can never be truly scrubbed out; after all, the Den of Mortal Delights is often cited among them to be the second best gift their Lord has given them.

(He has heard the jokes and cracks aimed at him when they think he is out of earshot or has his attention elsewhere. Some of the vernacular the younger trainees use go over his head, but the message remains the same: _Illidan Stormrage pines only for Tyrande Whisperwind. A man cuckolded, if there was ever one._ _The only comfort he has are his hands._

He does not scowl.)

Illidan thinks back to the day she came to him. There was blood in her hair, and on her armor. One long, slim ear had been nicked, and there was a long, red scratch that looped from the bridge of her nose to the underside of her right eye, giving her, at the time, a permanent squint; the healers that had attended to her after the tests had mentioned she was lucky to not have lost it. But the blinding ritual seemed to have made her gaze sharper, narrower, as if the squint also affected the wrathguard and left its mark on her. If she had looked predatory in the past, now she was judgmental—a silent purveyor.

The high elves...blood elves...whatever they call themselves now…had a reverence for the phoenix that bordered on worship, summoned by Dath’remar to light the first fire in Silvermoon when the last tone in Quel’Thalas was laid upon its foundations many, many moons ago. Yet the phoenix is a creature of the Firelands and could scarce be bonded by peoples of lesser arcane intellect, so it was that over time they established their fellowship with the hawkstrider that were native to the land, even long after the Scourge laid waste to it.

_Unto death do you part,_ he muses, and for the first time in as long a time as he can remember, there is a warmth that kindles in his chest. _Bird and cat, night and day._ _What delicious irony! You are no different than us._

( _You are no different from_ me _._ )

There is a growling chuckle above him, and now he does scowl up at her. “Now what?” he grouses. He is careful to keep the brush steady and away from her.

Alleria is smiling. “You,” she says.

He frowns. “What about me?”

“You’re smiling. You must have a good design in mind.”

“I don’t _smile_ ,” he says, “and yes, I do.”

“That’s great. Be sure to show me when the paint dries, alright? You’re a better artist than you take yourself for.”

Illidan harrumphs. The image is clear in his head. He grasps it, holds onto it.

He sets the brush to skin and strokes, one strong, firm line across her hip. It is blue, two tones lighter than the paint over her left eye. He takes care not to put too much pressure as he slowly, slowly wends his way round the bone toward the crux of her pubis where the tip pauses.

She bites back a gasp, low and guttural. He braces her against the slab, feels her abdominals crunch mold to the spaces between his fingers. He flattens them, putting all his weight down on his palm and not in the nails that dare to meet and dig into her, and draws the second mark cresting parallel the opposite bone.

A soft sigh, and her left ankle hooks itself on top of the back of his calves. He inhales deeply through his nostrils, chest expanding, and lets it go in a steady stream. “A little daring tonight, I see.”

“All part of the design,” he says. “I don’t intend to go any lower.”

“Oh,” she says, and there’s a thump that indicates she’s putting her head back down on the concrete. “I wouldn’t mind, you know. If you want to, that is.”

“One piece at a time, Alleria. I only have your arms in mind, nothing more.” A curve up her ribcage, slowing just beneath the swell of her left breast and the small, starburst-shaped scar there. “Perhaps another time. I may come up with something then.”

“I look forward to it, Lord Illidan.”

The next several minutes are spent with minimal distraction, small talk kept brief as the lines connect and the shape takes form. She does not fidget anywhere near as much as the other women do, and Illidan does not show nor say he is glad for that. He adjusts her as he must, and she acclimates to him as she must, merge in a way puzzle pieces do after a long time of disuse.

His heartbeat is a steady thrum in his ears.

Her gaze never leaves him. No words exchanged, even when he glances at her, his hands hovering close to her chest and pelvis. She makes no motion to decline or protest; she simply nods, and Illidan continues.

Finally, it’s done. He returns the brush to the dipper and sits up, arching his back. He studies Alleria, hand on the back of his neck from where he is popping the kinks out. She is small, a blade of grass next to a tree. Nestled between his legs, unmoving save for the rise and fall of her body indicative of her breathing, she appears to almost be sleeping if not for the languid flickering of the spectral sight that is brighter than it was before.

“Finished so soon?” she asks him. One corner of her mouth is tipped up in a sly smirk.

He huffs a quiet scoff, then grunts and clenches his jaw as another crick loosens. “But of course, unless you wish to be incapacitated even further than you will be. ’Tis as simple as I could make it. When it dries and you are capable of moving, I will show it to you then.” He lowers his hand to his side. Despite the background prodding in his thoughts to do so, he makes no move to get off the slab. “I hope,” he says, gently, “it will be to your liking.”

It is. It is about an hour before the paint dries and ten minutes before the fel lotus’s burning sensations kick in, but Alleria rides it out like a demon hunter would an unruly nether drake. She writhes and hisses and spits out a number of Thalassian obscenities aimed more at the demon within than lamenting her state of affairs by any stretch of the imagination. Illidan leaves her be as he puts the paints and tools away for the next hunter to come in.

When they see the pain abates and she is able to walk, Illidan takes her over to the mirror that is propped up against the corner of the wall where the flame caps are thickest on the sconces. She is silent, observing the image as it observes her, clad in the felcloth leggings and bandaged wrappings.

He does not activate his sight to memorize the way her eyes grow a little larger at the hawkstrider face on her abdomen, the minimalist scratches of outstretched wings in flight on her lower arms and the insides of her wrists. It will stay on her for a time before fading away from fel magic and the occasional firestorm that occurs and is carried by the wind from the Hand of Gul’dan.

He turns away from the cupboard, takes three steps forward, and stops within arm’s length behind her. “What do you think?” he asks.

She does not respond right away, but when she does it is soft, laden with an emotion Illidan knows it to be the ghost of yearning and a long-lost love of halcyon days forever out of reach. “It’s lovely,” she says, and he watches her throat bob.

“It’s not too simplistic?”

“No…. No, this is fine. In fact,” she says, cheerily, “I approve!” She claps her hands together and twists round to give him a graceful smile and wink. “You see? You _are_ a very good artist. You should do this more often.”

“Mmm...perhaps. The Burning Legion comes first.”

“Indeed,” she agrees with a solemn nod. “They always do. Ah, but look at it this way: we will never want for demon blood when all is said and done. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“I would not want it any other way, if it means humiliating them for every hunter they see.”

“It would fill my heart with so much joy, Lord Illidan. It’s what they deserve.”

Alleria is the first to leave, wrathguard mask in hand, and Illidan follows shortly after. The door closes behind him with a soft click, and the long hallway stretches out before him. He presses onward, at first to the accompaniment of his hooves on the flagstones and the leather rustling of his wings. Then, light at the end, and the hall opens up into the Den proper. The glow of the flame caps is low, roasted meat salting the air. There are demon hunters reclining on beds, sipping wines with the concubines. Others are sprawled in chairs, entreated to demonstrative teasing and lap dances from shivarra. There is a group of Illidari at a low table littered with hookahs, razor blades, and crushed bloodthistle. They laugh and whoop as one of them, which appears to clearly be Tirathon, bends down, snorts up a line, and shoots back up with a shaky, erotic moan; his is the moan that joins those in the other rooms beyond these walls, alongside the tell-tale sign of cracked whips and groaning mattress springs.

Illidan issues a hoarse huff and makes for the stairway leading down toward the Sanctuary of Shadows.

Kor’vas is leaning up against the wall taking it all in, but her ears stand to attention when she sees him. He keeps his expression and his body neutral as she pushes off and falls in step with him. “Forgive me if I’m speaking out of turn, Lord Illidan, but you look pretty happy.”

“Do I,” he states.

“Why yes.” She smirks. “So. Did you finally tell her? Or did she tell you?”

“Tell me what.”

“Come on. You know.”

“Know what.”

“You know! That!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t need to be so evasive. Everyone can see it.”

“Her design is done, so they can see it whenever they want.”

Kor'vas rolls her eyes. “And?”

“That’s it.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. Nothing more.”

“Awful quiet in there. I'll bet you—”

“I had wards up. To concentrate.”

"Sure you did."

"Yes, I did."

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“You’re right. It means nothing.” He brushes past her, just enough to bump her aside.

“L-Lord Illidan…!”

“ _Bloodthorn_ ,” he warns, voice demonic, and snaps his wings to their full length just as she’s about to run right into his back. He lowers them, quivering, and levels her a venomous glare. “Stop inquiring,” he begins, tone normal, “about my _private life_.” He folds them down, flat, and leaves her behind, spluttering and red-faced ("Seriously?! You're just going to leave things like _that?!_ ").

She did not have to know. No one had to. What would be the point in knowing something that would have no long-lasting effect on them?

_People,_ he thinks with a sniff, ignoring the Broken and the fel orcs that salute him on his way. The training grounds yawn open before him, into muddy, cloud-washed sunlight.

He spots Alleria working away at one of the training dummies erected away from the dragon kennels, spaced apart from the other hunters there to allow the space they need for mobility and offensive magic release. Her body conforms to the geometry of the target, flexes around it, a blur of steel and immolation that outshines the sigil of flame marked on the ground. Sweat gleans off her brow, coats her muscles in a fine sheen. In her hands are a pair of warglaives—pieces of Thas’dorah, the Windrunner family bow passed down from their forefather Talanas, broken down and reforged into blades within the pommel stamped with the loose curlicue that is the Illidari brand.

She is coiled in a stance that is all but ready to pounce on the target when she looks up, ears flickering. She straightens her posture, warglaives hanging by her sides, and turns toward him.

Their eyes meet.

Metal clashes against metal. Straw and wood and fiber fly from the dummies. Blood is thick on the air as the dragons feast. Hammers strike on anvils, the stink of sulfur crackle in their braziers. There are snatches of conversation Eredun in between strands of Nazja and Darnassian over the sound of whirring gem cutters and arcane incantations.

From here, he can see her eyes crinkle the moment she pushes up her mask. The way her face softens. The way she smiles, warm and welcoming.

“Lord Illidan,” says Alleria.

There are eyes on him now—not the Legion’s eyes, not Akama’s, and most definitely not Kil’jaeden’s. The Illidari are nothing if not forever watchful. They will whisper of him in the privacy of the night later, in comfort and in suspense. They will never let him live it down.

He lets go of the breath he has been holding, and with it all other thoughts.

Illidan smiles.


End file.
